


my flaws are open season

by andibeth82



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5135855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s quiet; without the help of his aids there’s no sound at all, not even the soft beat of her breath on exhale. But there’s something about being able to feel that for some reason is more intimate than being able to hear. </p><p>[Or, five moments between Clint and Natasha without hearing aids.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	my flaws are open season

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [towerparty](http://towerparty.livejournal.com/) flash fic challenge on LJ, for the prompt _"death is inevitable, but life - that's the tricky bit where things happen."_ And based on a prompt I had gotten from two dear friends awhile ago for "moments between Clint and Natasha without hearing aids." I'm a sucker for intimacy.

**1.**

 

When he comes to, after the blast, he recognizes Natasha.

Natasha, with her trademark suit and her thin hands and her red hair that looks silver coated in dust and snow. Natasha, with her strong arms and her familiar touch and her lips that he’s felt on his mouth, his chest, his stomach, that he now feels on his neck. Natasha, who thinks of herself as a weapon, sharp edges that hurt and burn with every concise movement but when she reaches out to grab the side of his head he feels only warmth, and then he feels her coming apart in his arms as she folds him into her, and her breaths are shuddering against his skin like a Morse code, and suddenly it’s like whatever danger he knows is still out there has been vanquished.

He can’t hear what she’s saying but he can feel the rhythm between her gasps, he can hear the sentiment of, _you’re okay_. _You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay_.

“I’m okay,” he repeats and there’s a sudden chill that runs down his spine when he realizes he can’t hear his own words. But he can hear her, and, he realizes, that’s all he needs as he tries to find something in the darkness to hold onto.

**2.**

 

Arizona in the summer is close to the worst place Clint can imagine being -- which, he thinks as he downs another bottle of water, is saying something considering how many shitty places he’s been sent in his life, for his job and otherwise. He’s lying on his back on the roof of the car, the sun beating down on his already burned shoulders, Natasha lying beside him with fingers splayed against his wrist, her thumb and pointer drumming gently on his skin.

He had removed his aids when they had first pulled the car over, yanked them out before Natasha even had a chance to give him a confused look, and they had both sat in stony silence before Clint got out of the car and hoisted himself onto the roof. Natasha had followed soon after, and though Clint couldn’t see with his eyes closed, he had felt Natasha squeeze his hand.

The anniversary of the day he lost his hearing, however stealthily it had crept up on him, is not something he wants to particularly relive.

She moves her hand to his face and props herself up on one elbow so that she can see him more clearly, then lets her eyes meet his before leaning in to kiss him gently on the lips. It’s quiet; without the help of his aids there’s no sound at all, not even the soft beat of her breath on exhale. But there’s something about being able to _feel_ that for some reason is more intimate than being able to hear. Like he’s alone in the world with her and only her, a moment that exists solely between them, even though they’re far from secluded.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” She keeps her face close so he can read her lips and Clint shakes his head as she lies back down next to him, because suddenly, it isn’t.

It's not so bad at all.

**3.**

 

He wakes the way he always does –- before his hand wraps around her throat, before his arm can hit her leg, before she can reassure him that no, he didn’t do anything, you’re okay, Clint, _you’re okay_.

His aids are lying on the bedside table and he doesn’t bother with them before he stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He splashes palm-sized handfuls of water over his face, gasping out air into the sink. When he finally raises his head, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror for the first time.

He feels old, he looks old. The ice has settled into his veins the same way its settled into the cold outside, and he can’t remember when he last looked in the mirror and recognized the person staring back at him. He closes his eyes and when he opens them, there’s a face staring back at him, a figure half-hidden by the door until it makes its way further into the room.

 _You’re upset._ The words are stilted, drawn on his back with gentle fingers as she gets close, but he understands the message and shakes his head.

“I’m okay.”

Natasha raises her hand, her fingers curling in the back of his hair, pressing her cheek against his back.

_No. You’re not._

He breathes in and out, letting his lungs expand and contract, letting her anchor him while his eyes fill with tears.

_No. I'm not._

“I killed all those people.”

Natasha puts two hands on his waist and turns him around until he’s facing her, drawing her eyes to her lips.

“I know you did. But you saved me.”

**4.**

 

The farm greets her like a stalwart, an anchor, its sloping roof rising up from the top of the trees at the point when she thinks she can’t possibly drive any further. She breathes a sigh of relief as she gets out of the car, stretching her legs, taking a moment to herself before walking up the long pathway towards the porch.

Clint’s home, she can tell by the fact the door is slightly ajar; any other time Natasha thinks it would be because he knows she might come on a whim. This time, however, it’s too random, and it’s too unprovoked. Natasha lets herself in anyway, throwing her phone on the floor and glancing at it with a distinct pain in her chest.

No one from SHIELD would be calling her now. At least, not through _that_ mode of communication.

He’s in the study, bent over by the wall and working on sanding down what look like new walls, his back tensed and, from what she can tell by his stance, his mind fully focused on the job at hand. There’s no thin purple line snaking over the curve of his ear, which she knows means he’s also taken out his aids for the time being.

Natasha reaches out and then withdraws her hand, unsure whether or not she wants to disturb him. She finds herself surprised when he straightens up, rubbing a free hand over the back of his neck as he turns around.

“Was wondering when you’d show up.”

He opens his arms and Natasha steps into them, pressing her body against his skin, because in the wake of a world that’s just gone to shit, she knows there’s nowhere else she wants and needs to be. It’s the same reason why she had driven to the farm on instinct, without even wondering if he would be there when she arrived.

“Thank you.”

Her face is buried in his chest and she knows he can’t hear her words, but she also knows it doesn’t matter.

**5.**

 

He sits alone in the armored closet that Tony’s built for just this purpose, his heavy coat sticking to his skin and the arrows in his boots an uncomfortable weight against his shins. His aids are in -– they always are, lately -– still, he doesn’t bother to look up when he hears the soft tread of shoes against the floor, registers the black suited leg that appears next to him, the soft leather of the uniform that sticks to his skin like a glove.

“The world might end, you know.”

He nods, fingers brushing over the creases in the photo that he holds between his thumbs.

“Yeah. I know.”

Natasha reaches up and gently prods at the hearing aid in his right ear, easing it out gently, before doing the same to the one in his left. She closes her fist around them and then puts a hand on his cheek, turning his face towards her.

_Stay here with me. Stay with me in this moment._

He lets her pull his head down, his breathing deep and steady, letting the silence fill his ears in the wake of Natasha’s touch, gentle and certain.

The world might end, and he knows that better than anyone. But if he can stay here a bit longer, he thinks everything might be okay.


End file.
